


Because she loved him too

by Soturo_Ayami



Series: Dragon Age Chronicles [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Stream of Consciousness, Suffering, heart ache, inner monolgue, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:54:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3871084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soturo_Ayami/pseuds/Soturo_Ayami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How I ached for the day when I could touch him. For one day when it would be alright for me to reach out to him and love him like his eyes reflected at me. </p><p>I did my best but war takes more casualties then just life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because she loved him too

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd~
> 
> Got inspired while playing through Cullen's romance in Inquisition and couldn't resist the struggle. 
> 
> For any glaring mistake please feel free to inform me.

She stands at the other end of the barrier. As she always is. Tempting, taunting him with promises of relief of that sweet, sweet ache that builds in him when he sees her walking down the halls, talking to her friends, passing her exams at an accelerated level. For her he would have-- For her he meant too.

“I will not be tempted by you demon! Blessed are they who stand before.The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.” he rocks kneeling in supplication for a god who has ever been silent but it is this here, now that keeps him from faulting. From straying to errant thoughts from before she was found to be aiding a blood mage, before all this.

“Cullen.” Her voice is sweet, air, soft on his ears as before. "Cullen, it is me... Do you not remember we talked after my harrowing? I am Saria. You rem--"

**No.**

He can see her gazing at him framed by another male elf, an elderly woman he belatedly recognizes as Wynne, and another woman with hawk bright eyes and a grimace of disgust for him and only him. Her robes are armor, her eyes are steady on his. Those blue, blue eyes, with flecks of forest green and hues of spun gold. Her hair is tousled from fighting, blood and other things splattered over her too bright armor. It dips too low, shows too much. It isn’t here, it never is.

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written.” He continues. Has to ignore them, has to survive to save his soul at least. He will not give them the satisfaction of breaking him.

“The poor boy has been tortured.” Another voice, Wynne’s, too sympathetic, too cruel in its soft, spoken way. There is a hissed and choked noise and she is there again only closer to the barrier, eyes wide with terror, her ears pointed, skin caramel, her lovely face directly in his sights.

“You will not have me demon. I will not yield.” How many times does he have to say it before the demon relents. Her eyes narrow, then widen, then there are tears (there have been tears before and they were fake _fake **fake**_!) Another choking sound, a whine almost a keen and there are pretty, delicate hands in fists that strike to rest against the barrier. They sizzle in the light of peace, they burn, charred flesh marking where her hands had been.

It will not have him it can not have him.

“Cullen…?” Her voice cracks and there are more words on her lips but he can not hear them. The tears flow and flow and flow, her hands remain burned against the barrier. Flinching, burning but not moving. It will burn the vile demon to its core if it does not move.

Snapped words when hands reach down to tug her away, jerking motions as she fights to stay where she sits. Never has there been an outside force trying to stop them before so maybe.

There are soft words in a voice he once loved. That voice having been twisted into so much pain, the feelings gnarled and cracked and bleeding at the edges. She is sobbing for something looking for something in his eyes with murky grey and blue and greens and golds.

“I am sorry. I am so sorry.” The faked sympathy hurts worse than the witch whose words are biting and don’t pity him. 

The sarcasm of the elf who finally after minutes pulls Saria away. Saria whose hands are burned and cracked and bleeding. But the whispers are back and he hisses the litany. Hisses his pain, prays for redemption, hopes for freedom from this madness. 

He doesn't see them go into the belly of the beast. Into the ritual chamber only then does he realize there is still blood on the tiles. Blood that isn’t dried, flaking or made into clumps of mangled flesh. The blood stays there as he stares at it. He wants to breathe a sigh of relief. It was her.  She had been there. In front of him. His temptation, his love, his torture. She was a mage, powerful and beautiful, terrifying, his heart and she had been here. It almost makes him reach out, feel the blood for his own peace of mind.

Cullen kneels there in his solemn vigil, hand hovering over a bloodstain when the Templar finally retrieve him.


End file.
